Cannibal King

By Nanine Case

Based on real events, "Cannibal King" is an inspiring account of a man exploring an exotic culture while striving for his survival—and freedom. Perfect for lovers of adventure and historical fiction.

What would drive a man to leave civilization behind and live out his life among cannibals?

In l847, young and daring John Rumell jumps ship on a French-occupied Marquesas Island only to end up on a neighboring island inhabited by hostile cannibals. There, he becomes infatuated with the chief’s daughter, Princess Marita, an irresistible temptress.

To win the princess’s hand in marriage, John must kill Niko, her former lover, and submit to a painful tattooing custom. Months later, he discovers he was tricked. Broken and permanently branded with tribal tattoos, which prohibit him from returning to civilization, John leaves the tribe, wandering aimlessly about the island.

After learning the chief is dying, John returns and accepts the dying man’s wish that he lead the tribe. As the chief’s successor, John resists Marita, who is determined to sit by his side as queen, and works to form an alliance between his people and the French, helping to lead the tribe toward a more peaceful existence.

Experience the historical Marquesas Islands, as seen through John Rumell’s eyes in his fantastical adventure, retold by a distant relative, Nanine Case.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Written Musings
• Release date: Oct 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9781955642033

Book preview

1

A Sad Farewell

It was October 17, 1845, seven years hence of John Rumell’s first adventure on a whaling ship when he was only fourteen. His plan to secretly leave New Bedford aboard a South Pacific bound whaler the following day was about to place the adventurous twenty-one-year-old deeper in his deception, fraught with fear that his trip would be thwarted if he were found out.

That eve of his departure, while seated in the parlor among his five family members, John casually thumbed the pages of a book about the cannibal-inhabited Marquesas Islands. He had borrowed the book from the Seaman’s Library earlier that day. In between his mindless reading, he stared into the fire, watching it spill glowing embers onto the stone hearth. Above the mantle, a gilded frame surrounding the family portrait glimmered in the fire’s glow.

John stared up at the faces on the canvas. He was struck by the skill with which the artist had captured the likeness of father and son—both angled of jaw, eyebrows arched and thick above wide hazel eyes. What the artist’s brush could not reveal, he thought, was the state of incompleteness he felt as the only son living among the frills and cackles of his three sisters: Lucretia, Ginny, and Jacquelyn, who were solemnly posed on the canvas below his portrait.

He looked across the room at his father, who was engaged in his nightly smoking routine. Charles Rumell must have felt his son’s eyes, for he paused and looked his way. John did not return his father’s stare; instead, he averted his eyes, looking down again at the pages. He knew from countless nights how his father would press the fresh batch of tobacco into the bowl and clench the bit of his favorite pipe between his teeth before striking a match.

In the room that now filled with the scent of tobacco, Charles Rumell settled back in his chair. Wearing an expression of complete contentment, he engaged in a peculiar habit of repeatedly rubbing his right thumb in a circular motion over the forefinger, an act that left both fingers permanently indented and smooth.

Never prone to complaining but finding her voice in a gentler manner, John’s mother, Mary Rumell, placed the needlepoint that held her attention in her lap. Looking down in shy contemplation, she fanned away the smoke with her lace handkerchief, objecting with a gentle cough.

Charles ignored her gesture, drew hard on his pipe, and puffed another cloud of smoke into the room.

John shifted his gaze across the room to his sisters, who were busying themselves with needle and thread while they engaged in petty gossip. At least, he thought, they were not chiding him, as they so often did, over his preoccupation with living a life at sea.

John’s cheeks flushed as he reached inside the pocket of his breeches and slid his right palm along the crisp edge of the farewell letter that held his safely guarded secret.

At ten o’clock, after everyone had said goodnight, they left John behind to scatter what remained of the logs in the fireplace and draw the curtains.

His breath fogged the windowpane while he looked out into the night. Beyond the large picture window, a dark sky threatened the arrival of New Bedford’s first snow. At the same time, a gust of wind shook the maple trees’ branches, releasing their dying leaves. Since John no longer felt the need to look at a scene that would soon be a memory, he drew the curtains and turned out the lamps.

Alone in the shadowy parlor, where he was safe from peering eyes, John liberated the letter from his pocket and slid it beneath the linen needlepoint lying in the basket beside his mother’s chair. He felt his throat tighten at the thought of the tearful episode that would occur after his mother read his farewell letter.

John lay fully clothed beneath layers of blankets while heat from the water bottle penetrated his hand-knitted socks.

He leaned across the night table, turned the knob on the lantern, and watched the flame slowly die. He waited in the darkness for the familiar beam of light from his mother’s lamp to creep through the large crack beneath the door.

Mary Rumell slowly opened the door to her son’s room. She was clad in her shawl-covered nightdress, the soft light revealing the telltale lines of middle age. She paused, listening for that reassuring sound of her son’s soft breathing.

She whispered, Good night, dear son, as she turned and closed the door, taking the beam of light with her.

He felt the heavy burden of guilt. Not enough, though, to cause him to unpack the satchel hidden beneath the bed that held his meager belongings. Nor would he allow himself to think of the effect it would have upon his mother when she learned her son had gone against her husband’s wishes and chosen to secretly go on another sea voyage. John assured himself that he had penned all the reasons necessary for her to understand her son’s need. The letter also gave his solemn promise that when he returned to New Bedford at the end of the voyage, he would choose a more acceptable occupation.

As for his father, John would leave Charles Rumell to anguish over the harsh words of disapproval he had so often inflicted when John refused to follow in his footsteps.

John did not sleep a wink. His only distraction from contemplating his journey was the howling wind that threatened to usher in winter. He waited anxiously in the darkness until the Seth Thomas wall clock announced it was three a.m.

He rose quietly and crept to the bedroom door, cracking it open enough to peer down the darkened hallway at the closed door to his father’s study. His heart thundered at the sight of light seeping around the cracks. Had his father fallen asleep with a book in his lap as he often did? Was he still awake, attending to some of his employer’s bookwork?

John tugged and pulled at the bedroom window until it finally flew upward with a loud crack. He froze in his spot, feeling the blood shoot straight to his temples. Pausing in the darkness, he waited for his father to push open the bedroom door. After a few minutes, he sighed in relief.

John took one last look at the shiny brass compass, then tucked it into the satchel among the meager contents and dropped the bag to the ground.

As he climbed through the open window and onto the trellis, the cold wind bit at his cheeks and shook the age-hardened limbs of the old rose bush. In his hasty descent, the thorns bit the skin on his arms and caused him to grimace. A weakened limb cracked under his weight and threatened to give way. With the ground near, he jumped the last few feet.

Stalled by a sadness that gripped his heart, John gave a final look at his mother’s darkened window. Then at the study window, where light from the lamp cast flickering shadows on the wall.

No looking back, he thought. He shook his head then dashed across the yard and into the night, hearing only the sound of dried leaves crunching underfoot. In his path, he roused a stray dog. It woke with a start, jumped up in defense of its territory, nipped at his heels, and barked a loud warning.

Undeterred, John ran in the direction of the New Bedford harbor, refusing to look back at the family’s two-story brick home with its sprawling row of maples shedding their foliage in the wind.

At five a.m., the docks of New Bedford were lightly dusted with newly fallen snow. The whaling ship, Starita, manned with her crew of twenty-eight, departed from the harbor, her course set for the whaling grounds of the South Pacific.

John Rumell stood at the ship’s railing, watching the sun rise on a new day while New Bedford faded from sight.

2

Thar She Blows

Five months later …

---

The ship’s bell, sounding two harsh rings, startled John from a deep sleep. He bolted from his bunk and planted himself into his breeches, pulling an arm through a shirtsleeve while dashing up the companionway onto the deck.

As he met the daylight, he saw, aloft, the able seaman on watch in the crow’s nest moving his spyglass over the ocean swells.

The man thrust an arm in the direction of a sighting and yelled over the wind, Thar she blows. A pod of whales off the stern!

Several members of the crew elbowed for space along the ship’s rail, the last three months of cruel treatment easily read in the slump of their shoulders.

Viewing the men’s worn expressions, John said with dismay, Looks like a big pod, and we are down to a small crew. He observed the captain conferring with the first mate, whose arm was wrapped in a sling. What’s more, the first mate is not going to be able to perform his duty as boatheader today.

Russell Pennfield, the ship’s oldest able seaman, said in his gravelly voice, "There ain’t enough men, period, to hunt whales today…not with nine of the crew layin’ half-dead in their bunks with that there scurvy." The years of wind and weather had routed deep lines in the crusty sailor’s face. But when it came to matters of the sea, the crew relied heavily on his experience.

John leaned in and murmured from the side of his mouth, Do you think being short-handed is going to matter to Captain Abrahms, Russell? He would send us out if we only had enough men for two boats. If you recall, in March, we were short-handed, and he lowered the boats fifteen times. Have you forgotten how we sweated over that boiling iron pot, rendering the oil from those seven whales? John gave a contemptuous nod. The captain has sold his soul for the devil’s purse. And as sure as the sun will set on this day, he will drive us into hell to get it.

Jeremiah Jones, the youngest-ranking ordinary seaman, heaved a sigh. We haven’t put our feet on solid soil goin’ on five months now. I fear every day of gettin’ the scurvy. Fine-drawn bones and a thin frame were good cause for his fear. And with the lousy food we’re eatin’, there’s little reason to wonder why them poor buggers are sufferin’ down below. The muscles in his jaw tightened and bunched between words. The captain worked ’em until they near ’bout dropped. Now look at ’em, so weak and covered all over in ’em spots. They can hardly put a morsel to their swollen and bleedin’ mouths.

Captain Abrahms cast a quick glance at the men huddled at the rail. Rick Stansel, the ship’s first mate, nodded and left the captain’s side, walking toward them with a deliberate stride.

John did not trust Stansel, even though the first mate regarded him as one of the best men on the ship and often showed him favor. He saw Stansel as arrogant, ambitious, and easily plied by a captain that John considered to be devious.

John cautioned, Shh, Jeremiah, we are about to have company.

The first mate cleared his throat and squared his shoulders. Mr. Rumell! A shock of the man’s carrot red hair blew in wild patterns across his freckled brow. "The captain has asked me to inform you that you will take my place as boatheader on the lead boat this morning. As you can see from the sling, I have injured my arm, and we are short-handed."

Several eyebrows shot up in approval, and Russell offered John a quick head nod.

Standing aft of the full sails, the captain shouted to the crew. Loosen the cranes to whaleboats one, two, and three!

The order sent the men dashing across the deck to the suspended whaleboats.

Hands flew and chains clanked as the whaleboats descended from their davits. After the men loaded the coiled hemp lines on board each boat, they stood by and awaited their orders.

The captain announced, Lower away!

Six men, including a mate per boat, took their positions on the whaleboats. Holding their long oars, they waited for the captain’s final orders.

Captain Abrahms paced the deck anxiously, his brow drawn down in a scowl. Let me remind you that this is the first large pod of sperm whales we have sighted in weeks.

John thought, As if he has not worked us like slaves in the meantime.

The captain’s eyes narrowed. Make good use of this pod. Bring me whales, I say. Bring me bloody whales!

John’s boat was the first out, leaving behind the captain with his fixed scowl and their injured first mate.

The rowers fought against the waves that pounded the boat and the salty spray that slapped their faces. Crewman strained at the oars to gain ground on the pod of sperm whales, which were moving gracefully through the water up ahead. When the three whaleboats were safely within range, each crew held tight to their oars while the harpooners prepared to make their strike.

John stood on the narrow board across the stern, holding steady the steering oar. Hurl, he shouted to the boat’s harpooner.

The harpoon flew through the air, impaling an enormous whale.

Russell shouted, He’s a monster! Hold tight! He’s about to take us on one hell of a ride.

The coiled hemp line sprang from the wooden tub and tightened against the persistence of the whale. The giant plowed through the ocean swells with John’s boat in tow, taking it away from the other boats. Russell was right. The whale was a monster of at least sixty feet. It burned the rope and threatened to extend the line to the limit.

Josiah Smith, a first-time seaman and better known to the crew as Josie, dragged a piggin against the boat’s wake then handed it to the harpooner to throw on the line to cool it. In what was rapidly becoming a battle of men against a monster, the harpooner did all he could do to keep up with the smoking hemp.

Without warning, the whale eased off, lulling the men into a false sense of victory. No sooner had they let loose with a volley of cheers when the giant let out a gush of water from its blowhole and changed its course. The move caused the harpooner to lose his balance and the whaleboat to tilt dangerously on its side. The steering oar flew from John’s hands. Just as he was about to go overboard, Josie caught hold of his arm and pulled him back. And just in time.

The whale picked up speed—in what seemed a deliberate maneuver—and headed straight for a fog bank some three hundred yards off the bow.

A quick-thinking John considered the prospect of the whale disappearing into the fog with the boat in tow. If so, the men faced a seaman’s worst peril—being lost at sea.

John shouted, Cut the rope before it is too late!

Russell grabbed the hatchet and chopped away at the braided hemp like a lumberjack cutting through a stubborn tree trunk.

Water invaded the vessel, forcing the men to bail. Temporarily blinded by a wave, Russell paused to wipe his eyes.

The frightened crew yelled, Cut the bastard loose, Russell, we’re goin’ into the fog!

Russell hacked harder and faster while the fog loomed closer—a huge, dark, tumbling cloud—waiting to consume beast and man. The panic-stricken crew held tight to their oars, watching the gray prison.

They yelled over each other, Dammit, we’re almost to the fog!

While the hatchet flew, the first few strands began to give way. A few more strikes, and only minutes to spare, the rope snapped free, causing the boat to lurch and propel the men from their positions onto a pile atop the oars. After the men righted themselves, they stared wide-eyed at the sight of the bank of fog drifting a mere hundred feet from the tip of the bow and the whale lifting its flukes before disappearing behind the curtain of gray.

The men turned the boat around and rowed some distance, letting it drift while they sat in silence and collected their composure.

John finally broke the silence. Thank you, Russell. You, too, men. That was a harrowing experience.

Russell drew a tremulous breath. You called it close, and I’m grateful for you usin’ your head and savin’ all of our necks, John.

Aye…and he saved the captain’s boat. Josiah Smith looked back in the direction of the fog and heaved a grateful sigh.

It was approaching dusk, time to row back to the ship. There was no time for the men to deliberate over the captain’s response to the lost whale and the ship’s harpoon. They all knew there would be hell to pay, and there’d be no saving grace for John, who made the decision to let the whale go. Captain Abrahms—tyrant that he was—would have a large piece of John Rumell’s hide.

The men grew silent at the first sight of the Starita’s unfurled sails outlined against the setting sun.

3

Captain Abrahms’ Wrath

Weary from their ordeal, the men rowed the battered whaleboat next to the ship just in time to watch a final slice of the sun extinguish its flame behind the horizon.

The previously lowered whaleboats were now suspended from their davits, and a harpooned sperm whale floated along the ship’s side.

I can feel the old man’s wrath already, Russell said in a voice laced with contempt while the men shinnied up the ship’s ropes.

John nearly collided with the captain as he climbed over the rail onto the ship.

Abrahm’s face was fixed in a cold, hard stare. Mr. Rumell, how say you? He paced back and forth in front of the able seaman, his arms folded behind his back.

We had a stroke of bad luck today, sir. We had harpooned the biggest whale in the pod and—

The captain stopped pacing and squared his towering frame in front of John. His narrow, deep-set eyes bore into him. "Had, Mr. Rumell? You mean almost had, don’t you?"

John seethed with contempt. He suppressed an urge to shove a knee into the captain’s stones, rendering him useless and writhing in agony in front of the crew. He was angry, all right, but not stupid. Living with a strict father who dealt out harsh words had taught him to keep his emotions in check.

He remained calm and kept his tone neutral. I ordered Russell to cut the rope, sir. The creature changed course and dragged us far away from the safety of the other boats. And it was pulling us into a thick fog bank. The captain continued to pace. John realized it was useless but attempted to plead his case. Either we cut the whale loose, Captain, or let the whale drag us into the fog. I chose to save the men and your whaleboat.

Josie jumped to John’s defense. That’s right, Captain. He saved your whaleboat.

The other four nodded since they were next in line for a tongue-lashing.

The captain flew into a tirade. You bunch of bungling idiots! Worthless bastards! What mother could have suckled such buffoons? You let a little fog get in the way of harpooning the biggest whale seen on this voyage! Mr. Rumell, do you have any idea how much oil you sent sailing? His face turned scarlet, his black eyes narrowing to slits. And you turned it loose with my bloody harpoon in its hide! Get your useless asses below and stay out of my sight. I will deal with you in due course. He turned and hissed at the remainder of the crew, who looked on in silence, "What are you idiots gawking at? Tend to the whale we did get before the sharks get it."

---

Later that evening, after suffering further punishment at the hands of Captain Abrahms, John withdrew to his bunk. He lay there in a dark surround, scarred with the coughs of the sick men.

The combined events aboard the Starita began to crowd in on him. He was drawn back, forced to remember that cold fall evening when he left the letter in his mother’s sewing basket, just five months earlier. What I wouldn’t give to be able to go back to New Bedford.

A voice whispering his name jolted John from his reveries.

It’s me. Josie, continued the voice in the dark. I laid down my head, but sleep won’t come. I’m sorry if I woke you.

You did not wake me, Josie. Sleep will not come to me either.

Josiah Smith was a Vermont-born farm boy. He had a permanent blush to his cheeks and a mass of yellow curls that held tight to his scalp like corkscrews. In spite of the generous build and inordinate display of muscle, he never struck John as the type for ship life. Perhaps that explained John’s desire to take him under his wing, almost from the start.

Even in a whisper, the desperateness of Josie’s tone came through. What are we goin’ to do, John? I can’t take much more of life on this ship—the lack of food, the diseases. Tomorrow, the captain’s goin’ to double our workload as punishment for losin’ the whale. He drew in close, his chest heaving with a heavy sigh. And he’s really leanin’ on you ’cause you set the whale free.

John leaned sideways in his bunk, resting on his elbow. His eyes had finally adjusted enough to see Josie’s outline. You know, Josie, when I chose to sign on to the Starita last year, I stepped from the bounds of propriety and respectability and went against the wishes of my family. My father wanted me to be a bookkeeper and sit behind a desk shuffling numbers as he does. That was not for me, and I told him so. My ears still grate with the sound of my sister Ginny chiding me, ‘All you talk about is life on some dirty whaling ship. Why do you not quit working at the docks! Get a respectable job! Marry a nice New Bedford girl.’ John felt the pangs of regret. How could I possibly have known that my decision to leave would go so miserably awry?

Josie was silent for a moment, lost in a memory, it seemed. Workin’ the fields and tendin’ the livestock was easy compared to this life. I thought it was goin’ to be an adventure. You know, with women and all. Russell has been on five whalin’ ships. He says he’s never served under the likes of Captain Abrahms. I guess it was just our bad luck to sign on to this ship.

I have been lying here for hours trying to sort through it all. John paused. If the oil stored in the hold of this ship was gold and half of it was mine, I would still want off this damned ship. And it is damned, you know, owing to the likes of Abrahms. Between the bad weather and the captain’s brutality, the last three months have been the worst of the voyage…adding up to a living hell! The men have settled into a state of boredom and listlessness, and they are getting into useless fights.

They have to do somethin’ to get rid of all that pent-up anger, Josie said in their defense.

John argued, Well, all it does is aggravate the captain into more severe measures of punishment. And with nineteen men carrying the load of twenty-eight, there are fewer of us these days for him to vent his anger on. The morale is the worst it has been. If we do not put in soon, I shudder to think what is in store for us.

You’re so much smarter than me. I have to rely on you to help me get through this. If you have a plan, please count me in. You know you can trust me. And I’ll look out for you…no matter what.

I have thought about it—a lot. We can remain on the ship until the end of the voyage, which means another two and a half years. I hate the captain so much I think I would be capable of killing him before it is over! John felt the rising anger burn his cheeks. We could steal the bow boat, but we are too far away from land. I would not trust the weather enough this time of year, even if land was near. I could lead the men in a mutiny, which they have already spoken to me about. But that is a serious crime. I would rather finish the voyage and deal with the likes of Abrahms than go to prison for mutiny. And spare my family from any further disgrace, he told himself. Or we can bide our time and jump ship when the captain puts in. We would be deserters. John placed a thoughtful finger to his chin and tapped it. If we get caught, though, we might get a lesser punishment if we plead to neglect and cruel treatment…especially if the nine crewmen with scurvy were called upon to tell their story.

That is if they live to tell it, John. Josie leaned in, his warm breath on John’s face. But the captain hasn’t put in yet. Who’s to say he’ll go to Lahaina where the Hawaiians are friendly? He drummed his fingers nervously on John’s cot.

John placed a reassuring hand on Josie’s arm. You will just have to toughen yourself until he does, my friend. There is always Moorea in the Society Islands. You know, Cook’s Bay?

Yeah, that’s where some of Captain Bligh’s men jumped the Bounty back when.

Right. Who knows…we may have to stop there on our way to the Marquesas. The captain will have to put in somewhere, sooner or later. Supplies are low, and the ship is going to need a refitting before too long.

A handshake in the dark sealed their commitment. Okay, I’ll keep all of that in my head from now on. Maybe that’ll make puttin’ up with the captain a little easier.

Do like I have done—perform your duties and stay out of the captain’s way. And when there is nothing to do, find something. Why do you think the captain made me boatheader today?

Yeah, and up until today, you’ve been in pretty good favor with the old man, as well as the ship’s mates.

True, but something tells me that is about to change.

4

The Tempest

Several days following the loss of the whale, threatening dark clouds tumbled across the sky, issuing cracking thunderbolts. When the winds gusted, they stretched the ship’s sails nearly to their limit.

Captain Abrahms scanned the sky to the northeast with his spyglass, his booming voice crying out over the wind, Call all hands. That storm is bearing down fast. Deep lines of worry replaced his usual scowl. His thin lips narrowed into a grim line. We are in for a bad one, men. We do not have very much time to prepare. The captain and the crew fell silent as the ship hesitated atop a lofty swell, plunging downward with a force that shook the deck beneath the crew’s feet and nearly took the captain with it. Mr. Rumell, check the rigging. Mr. Smith, go aloft and secure the sails at the mainmast. Mr. Pennfield and Mr. Jones, go down in the hold and secure the casks of oil. Make sure the door is bolted after you. A gust of wind tore off his hat and sent it sailing across the deck. Mr. Stansel, take four men to help secure the whaleboats. The rest of you…batten down the hatches and take everything below that is not tied down. And hurry, before this tempest blows us straight into kingdom come!

The wind picked up, howled, and blew with a fury that sent foaming claws of water crashing over the ship’s sides just as John was climbing down the rigging. A strong gust sent him flying onto the deck and into the churning water that was claiming everything in its path.

Helpless, John struggled for every breath, a target for every loose object. Salvation came only when a length of rope brushed against his face. He